Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  Abruptly I am too tired to deal with all the posturing, all the drama. I’ve been through enough in the past couple weeks to last a lifetime and all I want is a pair of strong arms to hold me, to take my burdens for a little while. “Take me home, Cole.”

  Both of them look at me, almost as if they’ve forgotten I’m here, apart from being some piece of meat they can tear between the two of them. Irritation sticks in my gut and I pull away from Jake and start walking past Cole, aiming for his bike. If he won’t take me home, I’ll drive the damn thing myself.

  “I don’t belong to either of you, so just drop it. For God’s sake, you barely know me,” I toss back over my shoulder, pushing my way out into the chill winter air, the breeze kissing my face cleanly. After a moment, the door opens again and Cole runs to catch up with me.

  “I’m sorry, Derry. He has that effect on me.” I nod my acceptance of his apology and wait patiently for him to start up the bike and hand me a helmet.

  “Do you ever drive a car? I mean, we’ve had six feet of snow in the past month and I’ve never seen you in something with four wheels.”

  Cole laughs and squeezes my hands around his waist as he kicks the cycle into gear. “I’ll get one if it’ll make you happy,” he promises and the rest of his words are lost in the wind as the school disappears behind us and our speech is swallowed by the road.

  The sky trembles on the edge of nightfall, clinging to the last vestiges of sunlight disappearing over the mountains, shifting a purple-hued sunset into velvety black. It reminds me of some evenings back home in Williamsburg where the dense patches of forest would eat every trace of light until the darkness was tangible, a primeval force that crouched just out of sight, ready to strike.

  I huddle on the stone steps outside the store, burrowing into the high collar of my coat and staring down at the leather-bound journal in my gloved hands. Guilt squats inside me, thick and disapproving, the taste acrid on my tongue. Somewhere in the night Phillip is walking around free, smiling his shark’s smile, gloating that one more day has passed since he murdered Nicole and no one can touch him.

  I read through Miranda’s diary again while tending the store this evening. Mom left me in charge while she went on her long awaited date with Cole’s father. Nothing I said could convince her to skip it. Even when I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She just gave me a skeptical look and said I’d spent enough time in bed.

  Cole stayed with me for a while, but had to go to work eventually. Our conversation had been stilted at best, downright uncomfortable at times.

  “Why didn’t you come like you promised?” I had finally asked, wanting to hear the truth from him rather than his brother.

  He sighed and rubbed his face wearily. “My dad. The principal called him when he caught me sneaking in and Dad commanded me to go home and stay there until he got back. I had no choice.”

  “Is it really that absolute? There’s no way of fighting him off?” I had asked, dubious.

  Cole just shook his head sadly. “No. Not for me, not for Jake. It hurts when I try to disobey him, like my blood is on fire, boiling inside me. It’s incapacitating.” He grabbed my hands and gave me an earnest look. “I’m so sorry, Derry. It’s all my fault. I should have been more careful coming in, but I was worried and didn’t pay attention to my surroundings. I hate that I have to be grateful to Jake, but I’m so glad he got there in time. I swear I tried,” he had pleaded, sapphire eyes boring into mine.

  “I understand,” I told him, but part of me didn’t. Part of me still wonders if he could’ve fought harder. I felt myself withdraw from him slightly in that moment.

  With the cold front still gripping Harpers Ferry and the gorgeous snow from the week before melted into soggy piles of grey and brown at the sides of the road, foot traffic was meager and business was slower. I had plenty of time to read Miranda’s self-deceiving words, the false picture she painted for herself while pretending that her world wasn’t disintegrating in her hands. I thought it might be less painful to read now that I would no longer see the truth behind the words, but the image of a broken red-haired doll clutching a pen stuck in my mind and I cried almost as much as I did the first time.

  A frigid wind blasts me and I give up, unlocking the shop and standing behind the door, leaving the lights out, watching across the street for the moment Cole will get off work and come to take me home. He promised tonight we would talk about how to get evidence about Phillip to the police. Cole even swore if it came down to it, he would plant something of Nicole’s in Phillip’s car, just so a warrant could be issued.

  I will do anything at this point. Every moment Phillip walks free is an insult to Nicole and a danger to me.

  I lean my head against the icy glass door and watch down the street as a car pulls alongside the curb by the pizza parlor. Something about the way the left light flickers is familiar and I freeze, my entire body on point.

  The headlights I saw on the access road the night Nicole died had that slight flicker.

  As I watch, breathless, Phillip emerges from the car, his blond hair picking up the faint glow from the dim streetlamps overhead. His profile is in shadow, but I know the way he moves. He glances up the street toward the store before he stuffs his keys in his coat pocket and enters the restaurant.

  Suddenly I am sprinting down the street, jerking to a stop outside the pizza place to peer inside. Phillip stands at the counter, talking to the cashier and pointing overhead at the menu on the wall. My heart skitters and leaps in a manic pattern as I back away, glancing about the street to see if anyone else is around.

  The night is silent and for once I feel like I’m in the right place at the right time. I stalk over to his car and say a silent prayer, hoping that he didn’t bother to lock it. I try the passenger door, but have no luck. In frustration, I squint into the dark interior, looking for any way to open the car and catch my breath as I see the rear door behind the driver’s side is unlocked, the button extended past its mates. Tossing a cautious glance over my shoulder I walk around to the other side of the car, hoping if anyone does happen to pass by, nothing will look suspicious.

  I stuff the journal inside my coat and gently pry the door open, my pulse racing and making my head spin. Adrenaline is pumping through me and for a moment I feel invincible, powerful. I reach up and flick off the interior light so I won’t be given away, and lean into the car, looking for the best place to stash the journal where Phillip won’t notice it but will still count as in plain sight. Once Phillip gets back in his car, I’ll call Detective Radcliffe and tell him I noticed the journal Nicole had shown me the day she died in his car. That should be enough to get them a search warrant, and I have to believe there is some other evidence in this car that will link Phillip to Nicole’s death.

  I decide to put it under the back of the driver’s seat, sticking out onto the floor just enough that I can claim to have seen it. Shame twists ugly fingers in my gut as I really consider what I am about to do. Two months ago I would never have imagined I would even think of planting evidence of a murder in a classmate’s car, but in my fear I have become reckless in my quest for vengeance.

  A sharp cry startles me and I pull out of the car just in time to see Phillip racing toward me, the café door slamming home behind him, light spilling out from the doorway to illuminate the unadulterated rage etched on his face. I suck in a breath and turn to run, but he leaps on me and knocks me to the ground, slapping my forehead against the cobblestones.

  Everything is dark and fuzzy, black swirls twisting sickly through my vision and I feel myself being lifted and shoved, my shoulder landing against something hard before another blow smashes into my face and the world goes black.

  I come to with a start and immediately lunge for the door, the handle standing out with stark clarity in the center of a blur, as though the only thing my bruised brain is capable of focusing on is a way out. Phillip curses viciously before swinging the car off the road violently enough to knock me back aga
in. He shoots out of the car and I scramble for the door, planning to kick him and run. But the door behind me opens instead and his arm is around my neck, pulling me into an unforgiving embrace that cuts off my air and sends dark spots flashing before my eyes.

  “You stupid bitch, you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? I was going to take my time with you, do things clean this time, but you forced my hand. Shit, this is going to be hard to cover up,” Phillip snarls, his breathing labored. I strike out at him with everything I have, knowing if I lose consciousness this time I will likely not recover. “You and that freak Nicole just keep pushing me. Calling me a murderer, drawing attention to me. I didn’t even kill Miranda and you bitches won’t quit! Now I’ve got get rid of you too, and this is going to be a pain in the ass to clean up.” He sounds more annoyed than anything.

  My struggle is getting weaker, my arms barely flailing and my kicks failing to accomplish anything. A stone sits where my lungs should be, and I feel my eyes bulging out of my skull, trying to release the terrible pressure in my head. My fingers catch something solid and I dig my nails in, raking them across Phillip’s neck, feeling the skin rip and catch beneath my clawed hands.

  His arm-lock around my neck tightens and my arms go limp. He is still growling, cursing me, cursing Nicole, but I am drifting on a sea of misery, agonized gasps barely clearing my lips as the darkness descends again and the emerald glow of Phillip’s eyes dims and sputters out.

  I am cold and cramped, my knees bent at an awkward angle, as though I have been stuffed into a box too small for me. I blink my eyes open but nothing greets my vision apart from darkness so complete it is suffocating. Panic races through me and I reach out only to meet a solid wall inches above my face, solid and metallic. Great gulps of air punch into me and I begin to hyperventilate, sure I have been buried alive, that somehow I am trapped in the ground with Miranda and Nicole, planted in some psychotic version of a garden in Phillip’s backyard.

  The sound and sense of movement gradually bring me back, and once my breathing subsides, I can hear the rumble of the wheels rolling beneath me and realize I am in the trunk of his car. Somehow I am awake and alive, probably being transported somewhere more secluded so Phillip can murder me in privacy. A sob escapes me, scorching my aching throat, my neck so tender I am sure whatever injuries Shockey left me with have grown more serious after Phillip’s handling.

  I think of Nicole, lying in this very trunk, paralyzed but still alive, bleeding and broken, knowing she wouldn’t escape, that I didn’t come for her in time and grief overwhelms me with sharpness that exceeds any discomfort my body suffers. With pain comes some clarity and I push past the panic to try and think, think of anything I can do to save myself.

  Groaning with effort, I pat my hands around, feeling the inside of the trunk for a weapon or way out. My efforts meet with nothing and the panic redoubles as I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been out or how much time I have left before Phillip reaches his destination and comes to finish me. I reach around frantically, finding where the trunk should open, but am unable to locate a catch or release switch. Cursing the idiotic impulse that drove me to break into the car in the first place, I bite my lip to keep from screaming in frustration and command myself to focus.

  Two years ago Mom and I were pulled over for a burnt out taillight and we had to get the police officer to show us how to replace the bulb. He didn’t give us a ticket, mainly because I think he recognized how incompetent Mom was when it came to cars, but he explained that most cars have panels inside the trunk that hide the wiring for the lights and all we had to do was pull the bulb out through the panel and screw a new one in before reinserting the whole thing.

  I shift so I am generally facing the front of the trunk, toward where I believe the taillights must be. Running my hands over the carpeted surface, I feel for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might signal a panel. The car rocks as the wheels pass over an uneven surface and I clutch the edge of the fabric to keep myself from rolling. I feel the material pull slightly, giving against the pressure and I yank harder until a space is cleared enough for me to feel around beneath it.

  Seconds pass by in tortured breaths, my body protesting the way I lay, the queasy ache in my head, the throbbing of my neck; but at last I feel something, a dip in the floor I can stick a finger beneath. Stretching, I pull up and feel it give way, and a nest of wires rests beneath my hand. Nearly sobbing in relief, I haul at the wires, not having any way of figuring out what each one is for, just praying that they connect to what I need.

  The wires catch on something and I change the angle, curving my wrist so that I can thread them all the way out. After an eternity, a brilliant stab of light pierces the gloom of the trunk and I am nearly blinded by the tiny bulb of the taillight. My face is wet with tears as I blink furiously, trying to adjust my vision.

  The enclosure comes into focus, the light weaker than I initially believed, but still enough to illuminate most of the space into which I am crowded. Seeing the finite space in the light does something to my breathing, as though my body is trying to shrink my lungs to fit and it takes me precious moments to regain control, to convince myself there is still air in the trunk. My nostrils burn and there is a chemical smell emanating from the carpet that seems stronger the longer I am in here.

  My hands shake, making the light bounce erratically as I search for anything that could be used as a weapon, but I am sorely disappointed. There is a windbreaker shoved into the corner and an empty soda cup from a fast-food restaurant, and nothing else. A howl of frustration nearly escapes me, but I keep quiet, knowing the longer Phillip believes me to be unconscious, the better. I’m not sure where he’s taking me or if he even has a plan, but I feel certain he’ll be moved to hurry up the inevitable if I draw attention to myself.

  Miranda’s journal pokes into my bruised side and I reach for it, whimpering at the odd angle. Pulling the book out, I put it on the trunk floor, thinking bitterly I managed to plant the evidence after all. Much good it would do me.

  The light slips from my hand and I clutch the roof to keep from being tossed around as the car swerves wildly before accelerating. He has made a decision. My time is growing short.

  With my hand on the journal I take a deep breath, wincing at the pain in my side. My head swims and nausea threatens to cause a tumult in my stomach. I briefly consider trying to cut myself on something, to leave a trace of my blood in the hope that someone might eventually check this trunk for evidence. If I can’t take Phillip down, at least maybe I’ll succeed from beyond the grave.

  Even as I think it, I recognize my thoughts are getting away from me, the air is growing denser and harder to swallow; my body is fighting exhaustion and concussion. I have never been hurt this much in so short a time in my life, and it is catching up with me. Forcing myself to take deep, even breaths, I clench my hands into fists and shift around until I think I’ll be able to kick when the trunk opens. I know this is my only chance now, to surprise Phillip and maybe get far enough away to call for help. Pushing aside the pain and terror, I tense my body, coiled and ready to strike.

  The thundering movement of the wheels below me slows and grows steadier, as though Phillip is suddenly taking more care with his driving. And then I hear it, the most beautiful sound, music so exquisite tears stream down my face, dropping home on the rough fabric beneath my cheek.

  A police siren.

  The sound is slightly muted in the trunk, but there is no mistaking the banshee wail that slices through the rumbling of the tires, the groan of the road. I pray, silently and fervently, and weep with relief when I feel the car drift to the side, slowing gradually into a halt. I can picture Phillip sitting in the driver’s seat, confident I’m unconscious or dead in the trunk, but perhaps there is a tinge of fear in those green eyes, a tightness to his sculpted lips, the taste of uncertainty on his tongue.

  As soon as I hear the muffled thump of a car door closing I scream with everything I
have, pounding and kicking on the roof of the trunk with frantic force, unexpected strength coursing through me. I scream for Miranda, for the pain she never shared, for the time she lost. I scream for Nicole, for her fury and vengeance, for the loss of something I barely had. I scream until my tortured throat is on fire and still push past it.

  The trunk opens.

  Chapter 18

  “I knew this kid was a psycho,” Officer Sowers’s voice cries out over me, shock written all over his face. He immediately extends a hand and I grab it, using his weight as leverage to pull myself out of the trunk. I come to my feet trembling, knees nearly giving out beneath me, but the shell-shocked officer steadies me, pulling me around to the side of the car.

  “You stay right there, and don’t move. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he shouts at Phillip. Sowers turns to me, concern creasing his face. “Derry, are you alright? What happened?”

  I glance over at Phillip, fear coursing through me in a painful burst as I take in his murderous expression. He is leaning against the passenger door, hands and legs spread. Humiliation burns in his eyes and I know he is imagining all the ways he will punish me for it.

  Something occurs to me, looking at where he is standing. “Officer Sowers,” I gasp, my voice raspy and grating. “Phillip has a gun in his glove compartment.”

  Phillip registers surprise before he lunges for the door handle, his quickness startling, but Sowers releases me and pins Phillip to the car again, his hand pressed into the back of his neck as he growls warnings in his ear.

  “Move again creep. Go ahead.” Sowers pulls his radio out of his belt and calls dispatch. “Sowers here. I’ve got the Bennett kid pulled over on Broken Ridge. He had Derry MacKenna in his trunk.” He glances my way again. “I assume you didn’t want to be in there?” he asks dryly.